Ambergate

by Patricia Elliott

  His time in the Militia had not improved Caleb’s table manners. He shoveled in his roast pork, his handsome face sulky. “But marriage, Pa! It’s a bit sudden. Takes a chap time to get used to the idea.”

  “My son, my son…,” began Porter Grouted. He gazed at Caleb with sentimental pride. “I know it’s a big step,” he went on more slowly, choosing his words carefully. “But it’s a step toward securin’ your future and the survival of our lineage. A father can do nothing less for his son, especially in my position. The rebels are almost at our gates, Caleb. The people may swing to them, and if they join forces in revolution, then we shall lose everything, includin’ our lives—you and I.”

  Caleb scowled. “And this marriage will stop that?”

  His father brandished a fork. “It’s all foretold, Caleb. I tell you, I’ve seen the prophecy with my own eyes.”

  Caleb pouted. “What about the girl Leah? I’ve met her once, you say?”

  “You came with your mother and me to Murkmere many years ago. She was about five, your cousin.” He chuckled. “Spent your time pinchin’ and bitin’ her, I seem to remember.”

  Caleb smiled, the same unpleasant smile as his father’s. “Did I make her cry?”

  “It was you who cried. She bit you right back, spiteful little thing. She was a skinny, wan shrimp of a child, all arms and legs.”

  Caleb spat out a piece of gristle. “Don’t like the sound of her, Pa. She sounds ugly. Ugly things make me want to wipe ’em from my sight.”

  Grouted chuckled again as the ratha paused at the end of a melody, and began another. “Oh, you won’t want to wipe her, son. I can guarantee that. Wait till you see her!”

  There was a knock, and Mather entered without announcement, followed by Chance. Caleb looked at Mather and from where he was sitting clumsily half saluted, thought better of it and started in on his pudding; Chance, he didn’t give a second glance.

  It was known that the Lord Protector disliked being interrupted during the process of eating, and today it was his favorite sponge pudding and syrup. He laid down his spoon with a show of resignation and frowned.

  “Mather. Like a bent scathin’, always turnin’ up. Well, spit it out, man. What did she say, my niece?”

  “She has written the declaration, My Lord.”

  “Give it here, then.” He seized the roll of vellum. There was a pause. The ratha played even slower and softer. Chance glanced over at Nate. He plucked the strings with a look of intense concentration on his face. It took concentration to play and listen at the same time, thought Chance.

  Grouted slapped his thigh. His little eyes were jubilant. “What would I do without you, Mather? We have her confirmation—in her own handwritin’, we have it!”

  Mather twitched his upper lip into the semblance of a smile. “I believe so, My Lord.”

  “Believe so? What is this, then, if not a confirmation?”

  “She has not admitted in so many words that she is one of the avia,” said Mather carefully.

  “Stuff, man! When we picked her up, that’s what she was sayin’, wasn’t it? She’s avian, no doubt about it, and probably the last of ‘em. And she was clutchin’ the swanskin that belonged to her mother! It was always said that Blanche Tun-stall was one of the avia, and we know the avian trait is inherited through the maternal line.”

  Mather sucked in his thin cheeks. “Miss Leah was delirious when she was discovered, My Lord. She was out of her mind, running a high fever.”

  Grouted snorted. “She was found on the bank of one of the park lakes. She was soakin’ wet, wasn’t she? So was the swanskin. And the fuss when it was taken from her! It had to be prised from her fingers. Nearly broke ‘em myself to get at it, but it would have looked bad for an uncle to do that. What further proof are we lookin’ for? She’s a swan girl.”

  “She was wet through, it’s true, My Lord, but the parks are not lit at night. In her delirium she might have fallen into the lake by accident.”

  Grouted spoke through gritted teeth. “You’re bein’ too precise, Mather. An excellent quality when extractin’ information, but at the moment no use to me at all. This document tells me that she says she is avian and it bears her signature. If I read it like that, then it is so, man. Understood?”

  Color tinged Mather’s gray cheekbones. “Yes, Sir.”

  Caleb had been absorbed in stuffing himself with pudding throughout their conversation and giving the occasional snide glance at Chance. As if it had just dawned on him that it was Leah they were talking about, he said uneasily, “What happens if she doesn’t like me, Pa?”

  “Doesn’t like you?” snarled his father. “What the hell do you mean?”

  Caleb stiffened in his chair, an apprehensive look on his face. He was clearly used to his father’s tempers. “No need to fly off, Pa,” he muttered. “Only wondering, that’s all.”

  “It don’t matter whether the chit likes you or not, son. Get that into your head.” The Lord Protector spoke louder, looking furiously over at the Boy Musician. “And as for you, you can stop your confounded pluckin’! If we had a singer, it might be a darned sight more cheerful than these dolors of yours!”

  He glared back at Caleb as silence fell. “Leah’s future is tied up with yours, that’s all there is to it. And she’s damned lucky to have a future. I could have had her arrested and tried by the Supreme Court for her role in what happened at Murkmere three years ago, but what have I done? As a dutiful uncle I’ve taken her in, let my best physicians tend her and nurse her back to health, and now I’m offerin’ her wealth and security. She’ll accept it, all right.” His tone softened; he leaned across and patted Caleb’s hand. “She’s only got to set eyes on you, my handsome boy, and she’ll accept, ain’t that so, Mather?”

  Caleb smirked and helped himself to more pudding.

  Mather coughed. “With reference to all this, Sir, it really is imperative that we find the girl, Number 102, and deal with her as fast as we can. Members of my team have spent all day at the Gravengate.”

  “But no sighting of the barge yet?” said the Protector. He took a generous spoonful of syrup and sucked it, narrow eyes sharp on his Chief Interrogator.

  “Not at the Gate itself, no,” said Mather uncomfortably. “I’ve taken the liberty of dispatching men further afield. They are searching the wharves on the way up to the Gate.

  They should report to me at first light tomorrow. The Redwing will be found, never fear, My Lord.”

  The Protector pushed his pudding bowl away and blotted his lips again. “Oh, I don’t fear, Mather. Nothing frightens me. You should know that by now.”

  “I do know it, Sir,” said Mather quietly.

  They looked at each other with cold eyes. It seemed to Chance that the temperature in the room fell by several degrees. “It is you who frighten others, Mather,” said the Lord Protector with a grim smile. “That is why I employ you, ain’t it? That is why you are my right-hand man. You do so excellent well at it.”

  Mather bowed his head, and the Protector rose to his feet.

  “And now, Mather, let us go tell my niece the good news. Come, Caleb, it’s time you set eyes on her. What a day for the dynasty, eh?” He strode to the door, a jaunty swing in his step, then turned. “You don’t need your bodyguard, Mather. He can stay here until we return. Let’s not overwhelm my niece in her chamber—give her a chance to have an intimate chat with my son.” He gave a guffaw. “They can get to know each other, eh?”

  As Chance stood and saluted, Caleb pushed by, and his heavy military boots ground into Chance’s feet. He grinned. “Sorry, did I step on your poor little toes, bodyguard?”

  The three of them had left the library, the guards outside swung the heavy double doors together, and Chance and Nate were alone.

  Overwhelmed by the fierce bronze glitter of the Eagle statuettes, the grandeur of so many books, and the sudden hush, Chance felt he should whisper.

  “What in the name of the Eagle was all that about?” he
asked Nate.

  “Haven’t you heard?” said Nate. “I thought that superior of yours might have told you.” He too had lowered his voice. “The Lord Protector has decided that his son’s going to marry Miss Leah.”

  “I guessed a bit from what they were sayin’,” said Chance defensively. “How do you know, then?”

  “I was in here earlier when the Protector told his son. I’ve been prescribed for the Protector, you see—by his physicians. He was complaining of gout and they thought music would balance his humors. Any time now I could get thrown out, of course, but I make sure he scarcely notices I’m here. He likes showing me off to visitors—makes him look a man of culture.”

  “You mean he’s really goin’ to marry his precious son off to an avian?” said Chance. “Thought he hated them like everyone else.”

  Nate fiddled with a string on his ratha. The candlelight cast shadows on his open face, making it look suddenly secretive. “He’s changed his mind. Something to do with a prophecy, I think.” He twanged a few melancholy notes. “Can you imagine a wild, beautiful creature like Leah married to that brute Caleb?” he said softly.

  Chance shrugged. “If she’s avian, she’s cursed anyway, cursed by the Eagle. Marriage to Caleb is what she deserves.” It was worth saying it to see the shock on Nate’s face.

  “What do you know about the orphan girl, Number 102?” said Nate, changing the subject abruptly. “Your Mather and the Protector seem very keen to hunt her down and deal with her—whatever that means—before the marriage. What’s her connection with all this?”

  “I don’t know,” said Chance truthfully. He was about to tell Nate of his own ambitions for capturing Number 102 when it struck him that the Boy Musician was a mite too inquisitive. He gave him a wary glance and shut his mouth again.

  But tomorrow he’d put his plan into action. Number 102—he knew exactly where to start looking for her, after all. He knew the brand on her arm meant she had come from the Gravengate Home. There was a good chance that if she’d left the barge, she would have been reclaimed by now.

  He’d go armed, of course. This time he meant to trap her.

  28

  “You could have knocked me down with a feather when I saw it was you up there on the platform,” Doggett said to me as she hurried me along through the pools of lamplight. “Little Scuff that we all thought was dead!”

  Mistress Crumplin let out a small scream. “Pray, Doggett, don’t talk of feathers! Blasphemy, girl!” She looked nervously into the shadows and clutched the amulet around her neck. “It will be the last Curfew bell soon. Hurry!”

  I found myself almost glad to see two familiar faces from Murkmere, even though one was my old rival whom I’d never trusted, and the other—housekeeper there until three years ago—my single source of terror and pain in that place. But Mistress Crumplin no longer seemed so fearful now that I had grown: indeed, she looked almost ridiculous in her bulky grosgrain skirts and her oversized bonnet. Her face, peering out between the black ribbons, seemed to have shrunk and lost its color: it had the same peaky, frightened look as all the city’s dwellers. I’d been rescued from a worse fate perhaps, but I was still returning to the Home where I’d spent two bitter, hungry years.

  “You don’t say much, girl,” panted Mistress Crumplin as we hurried along. She pressed a none-too-clean handkerchief to her nose as we passed a dog’s rotting corpse.

  “Give her a chance, Dorcas,” said Doggett. “She’s recoverin’ from the shock of that slave market. Bein’ sold—the shame of it! However did you come to that, Scuff? Good thing we was there lookin’ for a servant, weren’t it, Dorcas?”

  “We’ll give you good honest work at the Home,” said Mistress Crumplin. “Work you’re used to—scouring and scrubbing and such. Cleaning up after them little varmints—always vomiting, or wetting theyselves.”

  I saw Doggett smile in the lamplight. “Oh, there’s plenty to do. We’ve not had no spare time before, have we, Dorcas?”

  “You’re working in the Gravengate Home—both of you?” I faltered.

  “Mistress Crumplin, she worked at the Palace for a while when she left Murkmere—didn’t you, Dorcas?—for all that it was only six weeks before you got yourself throwed out!” Dog giggled.

  Mistress Crumplin straightened her bonnet. “Mistress Slyde—she’s Matron of the Home these past few years—took me on immediate as Housekeeper. There’s no disgrace in that. It’s an excellent position.”

  Doggett nudged me. “As for me, I told you I was comin’ to the Capital, didn’t I? I’ve not been here long, mind—not had time to find meself a husband yet. Dorcas was kind enough to employ me as Assistant Housekeeper, so here I am.”

  “What about Aggie?” I said in a low voice. “How are they faring at Murkmere?”

  “Aggie was forever talkin’ about you and all. She was sure you wasn’t dead, though she were cold to her aunt a good while after. And Miss Jennet—well, she said she’d not forgive herself if you had gone and died.” Doggett’s voice soured. “I doubt no one misses me.”

  “Aggie relied on you, Dog,” I said. “She must miss you.”

  I drew my jacket closer around me. Mistress Crumplin saw the amber stone and her eyes gleamed. “Why, ain’t that Miss Aggie’s?”

  “She gave it to me.” I did not want to be thought a thief.

  “You don’t want to be showing off such a jewel in Gravengate, young lady. Attracts all manner of vagrants. Best give it to me for safekeeping.” She held out her hand eagerly.

  I shook my head and pushed the amber down my bodice, out of sight. “I’ll keep it hidden, Mistress Crumplin. I must give it back to Aggie.”

  “If we all had amulets like that one,” she said with a sniff, “we’d not fear the Night Birds of the Capital, would we, Dog?”

  We all jumped as the last Curfew began to toll over the city; the grimy church we were passing joined in, with a sudden loud clanging from its crooked bell tower. A dark cloud of pigeons flew up around the belfry, disturbed from their roost. Before I could touch the amber, Mistress Crumplin gave me a spiteful prod; her fingers were no less painful than they had been.

  “Oh, my, we’re late! Come along, girl, do!”

  Before us a giant bird rose out of the night sky, its wings outstretched; I saw the shine of its eyes. But it could not fly from its plinth. It was one of the Eagle statues of the Capital that I had so feared as a small child, with their sinister marble eyes that seemed to watch every movement of the people toiling beneath them.

  We hurried by, out on the riverfront, where houses of dark, cracked stone leaned over the black water. I knew I was near the Home now, for we were walking toward the holding column of the Gravengate, and on the far side of the river I could see the great square pilothouse, its metallic facing engraved with silhouettes of the Birds of Night. From it, the chains that formed the Gravengate would shortly be wound up above the water level to block the further passage of shipping upriver after dark and keep the city secure.

  As a child, at first I had watched from the windows of the Home whenever I heard the grinding of the Gravengate’s wheel. I saw the chains rise, to lie over the surface of the black water like serpents; weed, rubbish, even gray, bloated corpses caught among their rusty coils. Sometimes the huge links trapped the living, for as the chains were raised, the smaller and flimsier boats tossed in the turbulence, throwing out their human cargo, and the last cries of drowning sailors mingled with the seagulls’ wails.

  They meant nothing to me: those deaths. I had lived with a dead body in the cellar for three days. But after a time I stopped watching the Gravengate rise from its dark secret bed: there was no novelty in it any longer.

  Mistress Slyde was a tall woman in middle age, with a hard mouth and straight, graying hair drawn back so tightly into a bun that it looked as if it had tugged all kindness from her face. Even in the tallow light I could see her dark clothes were immaculately starched and pressed.

  “Is the girl healthy?�
� she asked Mistress Crumplin, stalking in a wide circle around me. She shot out a hand and pinched my upper arm so painfully I flinched. Her mouth tightened. “There’s some muscle on her, I grant, but is she used to hard work?”

  “Oh, yes, Ma’am. I can guarantee it. We all worked hard at Murkmere.” Mistress Crumplin twisted her hands together earnestly, her voice shaking. She was frightened of this woman, I thought, frightened of losing her livelihood in the dark, dangerous city.

  “Then find her some clothes,” Mistress Slyde said, as if I weren’t there with the two of them in the dim basement kitchen. Her nostrils twitched as she spoke. “Discard what she’s wearing; burn the lot. And her hair is far too long, and lice-ridden, no doubt. Tomorrow I shall cut it all off.”

  Mistress Crumplin bobbed a nervous curtsey. “I trained this girl at Murkmere myself, Ma’am. You know how hard it is to find staff these days. I can assure you she is a good kitchen maid…”

  “You may use her in the kitchen, Crumplin. But I wish to use her too.” Mistress Slyde came closer and, holding a candle to my face, examined me from all angles as if I were a cow at market. “She hasn’t a pleasant expression, I fear—not an amenable girl, for one of her lowly degree. Never mind, hard work should cure her rebellion. If it persists, we’ll take her back to market and sell her off. Meanwhile, there’s plenty for her to do here. Send her up at eight to help me with the girls’ dormitory.”

  Mistress Crumplin gave me a stiff black shift to put on over my bodice and drawers, and a pair of yellow stockings. “You’ll wear ‘em if you’re wise,” she said as she saw my face. “They frightens the rats away. We all wear ’em.” And she pulled up her skirts to show me her own lumpy yellow ankles. Then, in spite of my protests, she carried away my raspberry silk skirt and Shadow’s jacket. I managed to rescue Miss Jennet’s letter and store it in my box, but I never saw my clothes again.

  For the next hour maybe I worked alone in the kitchen, moving awkwardly in my unfamiliar clothes as I scoured pans and washed dishes. As the darkness came down outside, cockroaches ran from beneath the skirting boards, scuttling over the floor and work surfaces. Wherever I trod, I could feel bodies squash beneath my boots. The whole room moved.